NAIROBI
by Dubricus
Summary: Derek Rayne & William Sloan endure a Kenyan misadventure in 1979.


*Title: Nairobi 

*Author/pseudonym: Dubricus & Selena 

*Email address: dubricus@hotmail.com; Sellathome@aol.com 

*Website: **Merlynn's Maze**

*Rating: PG-13; language, sexual inuendo 

*Angst Rating: very low 

*Focus: Derek Rayne, at age 25, & William Sloan, San Francisco's Precept. 

*Status: Complete; first posted Feb. 1999. 

*Episode spoilers: none 

*Summary: A much younger Derek Rayne & William Sloan endure a comedic misadventure in the capital of Kenya. 

*Special Warning: This is part of a series of stories about the life of **Dr. Derek Emrys Rayne**. Over the years we have endeavored to remain true to the spirit, character, and details of Dr. Derek Rayne, Precept of the San Francisco Legacy House, but we have also expanded on his life story and maintained our own continuity. 

We never intended for our "saga" to become as complex as it has. It just sort of grew. I intend to post here, at the FanFiction.net, what I can. However, several of our stories grew to be so large that it is not practical. Some also have photos that accompany the text. 

Therefore, I would strongly urge a visit to **Merlynn's Maze,** where you will also find a "Who's Who" & a "What's What" section, entitled **_Faith Hath Need of the Whole Truth_**, along with photos taken by the authors of the real Angel Island, San Francisco environs, & Hatley Castle. 

*Special thanks: to our "Nairobi" beta-readers, Ginia Polyzos & DenHog, who saw the humor in it. 

*Acknowledgements: Suggested by a line in the S2 episode, "The New Guard", by Michael Sadowsky. 

*Disclaimer: This story is an original work of amateur fiction, and is written purely for the private entertainment of P:TL fans. This story is no way affiliated with the Trilogy Entertainment Group, MGM Worldwide Television or The Sci-Fi Channel. No monetary gain is intended. 

* * *

**NAIROBI **

by Dubricus & Selena (Feb. 1999) 

_**Kenya, 1979 **_   
  


  


Two burly police officers pushed their handcuffed charges down the crowded corridor. The stench of bodies sweating in the African heat was almost unbearable. Screams and raucous laughter echoed from all sides. 

"This is intolerable.... I demand to see the American ambassador," shouted William Sloan. 

Finally, the officers jerked their disheveled prisoners to a halt before a white gowned nun... a mountain of a woman well over six-feet in height, starched to within an inch of rigor mortis. 

"They're all yours, Ma'am," the police sergeant said. "Both are definitely delusional... possibly paranoid. 

"Out of diplomatic courtesy the judge is remanding them into the custody of the St. Ambrose Asylum for observation, rather than the state hospital. He will want a report next week." 

Turning toward the steel door beside her, the sister pulled a six-inch key ring from beneath her tabard. The keys clattered as she unlocked the heavy bolt and swung open the door. The policemen unlocked their prisoners' handcuffs and shoved the men into the small cell. 

"I am Sister Ursula, the Mother Superior and administrator of this facility," she explained in a thick German accent. "Now, _meine Herrn_, if you vill please strip und put these on," she ordered. "I vill vant you shoes as vell, _bitte_," she added as she handed what seemed to be folded sheets to older man. 

"Excuse me, Reverend Mother... but, what are these?" Sloan asked tersely. Under his breath he muttered, "I can't believe this is happening." 

"Hospital gowns, _mein Herr_... und, I assure you, it is happening," Sister Ursula replied flatly. "This is an hospital. You vill not be allowed to retain your own clothing while under observation." 

"Observation?" he echoed. William Sloan, San Francisco's precept, pursed his lips as though he had just tasted an unripe persimmon. 

"_Ja_... observation... Zo... _bitte_... if you please... zie behavior of you und your companion can hardly be considered normal," she replied patiently, but firmly. "Demon begone, indeed!... und, holy _Wasser_ on zie Vice-president... _Gott in Himmel!_ Who would have expected it from two such... formerly... dignified gentlemen as yourselves?" 

"We're scientists!" Sloan exclaimed._ Gott in Himmel_, indeed! He'd set this non-perspiring, Mount Rushmore of a woman straight... you can't do this to a Legacy precept. 

"_Ja, ja_ ... of course, you are... und I am zie Pope... _bitte_... your clothing und your shoes, or I shall have my orderly, Hans, assist you," said Sister Ursula, who in her years at St. Ambrose's had heard every fantasy that could be imagined. She was not about to let this arrogant American try to convince her of his sanity... not when she knew better. "Sir," she continued in a no-nonsense tone, "you would be vise to comply. Hans can assist zie both of you at zie same time, if necessary." 

"All right," the precept replied gruffly. "Derek," he said, slapping the younger man across the chest with one of the gowns, "do what the nice lady says." 

Still rubbing his wrists, Derek Rayne cleared his throat and said in the most persuasive tone he could muster, "Reverend Mother... would you, please, be so kind as to inform someone that we're here.... We wouldn't want them to worry." 

"You may call me Sister Ursula. Unfortunately, both zie Church und zie law require complete seclusion," she explained. "Then we shall notify someone... zo that you may retain counsel to speak for you at your hearing.... Left hands, _meine Herrn, bitte,_" she requested. 

As the two men extended their hands, the immense nun quickly fastened plastic hospital ID bracelets around their wrists. "Do not remove it," she ordered. "Hans vill be by for your things in _fünf Minuten_... I'm sorry... five minutes. I suggest that they be folded und waiting for him beside zie door," she continued without pause. "He vill also do a complete search. I assure you... your complete cooperation will make it much easier. Do I make myself clear?" she asked as she turned toward the door. _"Pax vobiscum,"_ she added, pulling it closed behind her. 

The door slammed shut with a muffled thud. The two men heard the bolt rammed home and rattle of the keys. 

"_Et vobiscum_, Sister Brunhilde," Sloan replied with a twinge of spite. "Well, I'm patient number 28395," he said sourly. "Who are you?" 

Derek glanced at his wrist. "28394," he answered, then immediately tried the door. With only canvas padding on his side, there wasn't much to try. His long fingers probed along the edges of the small viewing port set high in the door, but it was tightly secured from the outside as well. 

"It's locked tight," William commented flatly as he surveyed their new home, a completely padded ten by ten foot cubicle with no windows and a flickering flourescent light set deeply into the ceiling. With a sigh he began to unbutton his shirt. 

"So I've noticed," said Derek. _"Godverdomme!"_ he swore as he sent a shoe flying across the cell to bounce off the opposite wall... not that it had far to go. 

The precept ducked. "Come on, Derek... no need for language." 

The younger man ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. "He was a doppelganger.... I know it!... I saw it!" Quickly, he pulled off his socks and tossed them toward the door. "Dammit! I couldn't have been wrong... it was so clear." 

"Well... you were wrong," countered Sloan, slipping on the white hospital gown. "And here we are... two loons in the looney bin. It almost serves us right." 

A moment later, they heard the lock turn. The door swung open to reveal a giant of an orderly. "Gentlemen," he said, closing the door behind him "I am Hans. You will please step away from the door and face the wall." 

"Is everyone around here related to the Jolly Green Giant?" William asked in sarcastic disbelief. Guessing at the indignity about to befall them, he watched Hans slowly pull a pair of rubber gloves onto his huge, black hands. 

"Hands on the wall... gentlemen," the orderly repeated in a voice as deep as a bass fiddle. "Spread your legs... and do not move." 

* * * 

When Derek finally opened his eyes again, he glanced over to see an expression of controlled rage skim across his precept's hawkish profile. 

"Sir," said Hans, "I will require your ring." 

Sloan hesitated. 

"William... give him the damned ring!" said Derek. He had seen the iciness in his friend's eyes and knew what emotions lay frozen beneath... he simply wasn't in the mood for another confrontation with the powers that be. 

The precept smiled. "Of course," he said as he handed his precept's signet to the orderly. "Calm down, Derek," he cooly instructed. 

_"Danke,"_ said Hans. Quickly, he turned to collect their clothing, then pulled the door to and locked it behind him. 

"I am calm," Derek said quietly. 

"Well... I'm not," William said from between clinched teeth. "That son-of-a-bitch just found nooks and crannies in my body that I never even knew existed... with a rubber glove that felt like a busboy's reject." 

Derek sighed as he slid down the wall. "By the way, William," he commented drily, "you might want to hang onto your gown or else keep your back to the wall. Yours isn't the prettiest I've ever seen," he added. A sly half-smile crept across his face. 

Sloan caught the twinkle in his friend's hazel eyes. "Like yours is such a prize?" he retorted as he plopped himself down beside the younger man. 

"It has been on occasion," Derek replied with a quick grin. "Why in the hell didn't you run when I said, 'Run'? You stood there like an idiot waving your damned passport. 'I'm an American citizen'," he mocked, suppressing and flattening his Dutch lilt into something resembling Sloan's Yankee accent. "Like they care!" 

Sloan rallied to the battle. "Why did you try to exorcize the Vice-president? Was it that damned 'Sight' of yours... or just some gut feeling? Maybe you should have poured the holy water on yourself... sometimes I think you're the one that's possessed." 

"It was him," Derek insisted. He paused, then continued with hesitation, "Well, at least... I thought it was. It was a doppelganger at the Luna reception in San Francisco," he added with confidence. 

"But it wasn't here?" William prompted. The precept cast a penetrating stare at his younger colleague. It was the most withering gaze he had in his repertoire and one guaranteed to melt anyone other than this stubborn, Dutch hellion. I only get myself into these situations when I'm with Derek, he thought. That's it! Next time... he stays home.... No, hell! he realized... I'm always chasing him.... Next time I stay home... let him fend for himself... then he'll come begging for my help... and I'll take my sweet time. 

Toying with the edge of his cotton gown, Derek pondered for a moment. "No... I don't think so," he finally admitted. "Poor man," he continued with a chuckle, "Got! I hit him square in the face with the holy water and then the oil. You should have seen the look on his face." 

Both men began to laugh as Derek added, "I'm surprised we haven't wound up in a place like this a long time ago.... It suits you perfectly." 

"And what about you?" William countered. "You think you're getting out of here?" Still laughing, he gave his young friend a poke in the ribs. "Wait until I tell your mother." 

"Yes... and look who's with me... her favorite watchdog," Derek responded with a touch of acid. 

"And where would you be without me?" 

"I'd have been a mile away," he retorted, "if you'd have run. I don't want to talk about it." 

"Oh, please... run?" Sloan quipped. "You couldn't even run a morning mile with Croft and me, remember? They'd have caught you in ten seconds flat." 

Derek pushed himself off the mattress-like floor. "Not if you hadn't stood there like a deer in the headlights," he said with a rising voice. "God!... and I thought Legacy precepts were supposed to be able to think on their feet. Your brains must be in your feet... and they must be made out of lead." 

The younger man began to pace. "Christ!" he continued without pause. "What's Luna's Board of Directors going to say about this? I'm still not totally free of the damned trusteeship... and I've got a meeting with them on Friday... about funding for the museum, no less. Maybe they won't hear about it," he added with little hope. 

"Right," William agreed, "and, maybe, a lightning bolt will strike them all down. Of course, you could fire them all. Don't you practically own them anyway?" 

Derek continued to pace. "I can just see the tabloids. 'Derek Rayne committed to African insane asylum. Is he fit to head the Luna Foundation?' Got! It'll probably even have a picture of my ass flapping in the wind.... _Scheisse_!" He gave his gown an aggravated tug toward the back. 

"It'll serve you right," the precept said with infuriating calmness. "I hope London sees it and sends a copy to each House." 

"... and yours right beside, don't forget," Derek added as his left eyebrow rose to accent the sarcasm. 

* * * 

"I wonder if they feed you in here," asked William, tiring of the silence that had ruled inside the cell for the past minutes or hours... they had no way of telling. Outside they could hear the muffled screams that seemed to unceasingly dominate that section of the hospital. 

Derek shifted his position in boredom. "I think they stuffed this padding with horsehair," he commented at last. "It makes for a prickly seat." He tucked his gown beneath him as well as he could. 

"Probably goat hair," corrected the precept. "That's what they raise around here.... Frankly I hate to think what creepy crawlies might be under this canvas." 

"Nice thought." 

Derek's attention wandered. "You know, William," he said at last, "you really should cut your toenails occasionally. Doesn't Patricia complain?" 

Piqued, Sloan answered more harshly than he intended. "At least, I have someone to complain." 

"Yes... so you do," Derek replied in a melancholy tone. "You're very lucky." He cast his eyes downward and began to toy again with his gown. 

The precept immediately regretted his comment. He hadn't intended to hit so close to home. He'd never realized that this was something that Derek felt so strongly about. Gently, he placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Someday, my friend... but first we've got to get the hell out of this damned shoe box." 

A wistful smile crossed Derek's lips. "I hate to say it, but I think we're stuck.... God!" he chuckled. "...and I get to look at your _reet_ for God knows how many days.... I will be insane." 

* * * 

Time dragged on... the two Legacy members had no idea how much time or whether it was day or night. They had eaten six meals, of questionable quality, but whether that was three meals a day, two meals a day, or one meal a day, they knew not. Their eyes ached from the flickering of the flourescent light that remained constantly on. Always, there were the screams. A new tenant had been moved into the cell next door... a woman with vocal cords of tempered steel. 

"Good Got!" Derek exclaimed. "I wish they'd shut that banshee up!" Curled against the wall, he folded his arms over his ears. "That goddamned light is giving me a headache and as soon as I manage to doze, she screams." 

Slouched in the corner William, opened his eyes and said calmly, "At least we know there are other people alive in here." 

"I'm not so sure about that... present company included." Derek pushed himself up to lean against the wall. "How long do you think it's been?" he asked, running a hand across his face. "My beard says three days." 

The precept laughed. "Your beard?... Ha!" 

"What? It's as itchy as hell," the younger man replied. "Speaking of which, yours looks like it's getting some gray in it." Derek climbed to his feet and stretched... the room was truly beginning to close in on him. Though he'd never been an overly anxious man, the desire to claw through the walls to get out... to get a breath of fresh air... was becoming overwhelming. 

William could read his friend's growing anxiety. "At least it proves I'm past puberty," he baited. 

"Yes... and edging toward Social Security." 

"... that you're paying for," he countered. 

Derek leaned against the wall and began to bounce his head against the padding. "Got! I think this observation is a ploy to make you go crazy." 

"Too late for one of us," William jabbed. 

"Don't I know it?" retorted Derek, looking down at the precept. "I should have signed the papers on you a long time ago.... I should leave you here.... No...." He paused for thought. "Can't commit one for just being stupid... doesn't know what 'run' means." 

Sloan snickered. "Can't tell a demon from a human being.... I'll bet you're great at parties." 

"Frankly," Derek replied evenly, "at the moment, I'd take the demon... at least I might get an intelligent conversation out of it." 

"You'd just tell it to run, I suppose," the older man prodded. 

Derek pushed himself away from the wall and, swinging his long arms, began to pace in circles around the small cell. "Well," he answered sarcastically, "it wouldn't stand there waving that damned US passport, screaming, 'You can't do this. I'm an American citizen!... I demand to see the President.' Good God! William... and you wonder why they call you people 'ugly Americans'?" 

"Ugly... no, American... yes... and just what does your birth certificate read?" 

Suddenly, there was the sound of a click and a fine spray issued from a sprinkler head nestled beside the light fixture. The volume of screams from the neighboring cells rose to a cacophony. 

"What in the hell?" said Derek, shielding his eyes as he looked for the source of the acrid, almost gaseous mist. 

Sloan coughed, then hung his head to wipe his face on his now damp gown. "I think we're being deloused. Don't breathe," he instructed. 

"Shit!" Derek covered his nose and sighed, "What next?" 

* * * 

An hour or more later, Derek was still pacing. He had found the game of slamming his fist in the center of each row of padding as he passed by it. 

Sloan was on the verge of murder. "Derek, will you, please, sit down!" he yelled. "You're becoming the lab rat that incessantly chases its tail. What happened to all that meditation training?" Another bang answered his question. 

"I'm smothering! It must be 120o. There's not enough oxygen in here," Derek complained, then sniffed the air. "Jesus! You stink.... What do you live on... Limburger cheese?" 

"You're living on the same thing, my friend," replied Sloan, wiping the sweat from his neck. "And your bodily hygiene isn't the most fragrant at the moment, either." 

"At your age, maybe your body doesn't metabolize it as well," the younger man continued. Suddenly, his stomach growled with the intensity of thunder on a silent, summer day. 

William laughed. "Or maybe mine conserves it," he suggested. 

"And, I suppose, you're not hungry," Derek responded. "What was that they gave us last? I couldn't tell what it was supposed to be... just that it didn't move." 

"Which is all we needed to know," the precept replied. 

With restless anxiety, the his friend continued to wander around the cubicle. Suddenly, a shrill wail penetrated the cell. _"Godverdomme!"_ Derek shouted. "There she goes again." He covered his ears and resumed his pacing... driving William closer to insanity 

"Derek... the language," Sloan corrected. 

The younger man stopped. Pulling himself up to his full height, he looked down at his friend. "If I didn't know better, I'd think old Hans lost a rubber glove somewhere during that search. When did your mouth become so squeaky clean? I seem to recall some very colorful words when you caused that power surge in the Underground," Derek said drily. "That certainly was some poltergeist! Remember that one?" he challenged. "Mistaking the Vice-president for a demon pales in comparison. You stopped traffic in central London for a whole day... and got the Queen stuck in an elevator." 

"That didn't get us thrown in an asylum," replied Sloan. 

"No... you had the sense to run," said Derek. "Christ! Shut that woman up!" he exclaimed as another scream pierced the walls. 

Abruptly, silence reigned. 

"There," said William, "are you happy, now?" 

"No," retorted Derek, running a hand through his damp, unkempt hair. "But, at least I'm just suffocating now... instead of suffocating and going deaf.... How can you just sit there?" 

"I'm old... remember," Sloan chuckled. "Think of it as a free sauna. You'll be like this when you're my age." 

"Oh, saints preserve me!... You're not that much older.... Sometimes you remind me of Mother... only she'd have been screaming, 'I demand to see the Dutch ambassador!'" 

"See?" the precept goaded. "She wouldn't have run either." 

"No," Derek agreed as he slid to the floor. "Not in heels... but she'd have carried it off. I'll bet she'd have ended up having lunch with the Vice-president, instead of trying to suck up to the police chief in Swahili and calling him the son of a warthog.... And you don't even have the heels excuse to fall back on... or, do you?" he added with a snicker. 

"And her brave son would have run away," William retorted. "Never a thought to offer a little Luna Foundation campaign contribution. Come on, Derek... you have more than enough to spare." 

"He who runs away lives to fight another day... and doesn't get tossed in the monkey cage with a simian like you.... That's called 'bribery'... and we'd probably have ended up in prison for life." 

"Respect your elders," scolded Sloan, letting the younger man know who was in charge here. Derek had a tendency to forget. 

"Yes... Head Master Sloan," Derek mocked. 

"Oh, please!" 

"Oh, please!... Now you sound like Ingrid used to at that time of the month." 

"You want to hear my impression of you?" William asked in an irritated tone. The stagnant heat of the cell was beginning to grate on his nerves as much as Derek was. He pulled the damp, clinging cotton of his gown away from his chest. 

"Feel free," Derek responded sharply. 

"Of course, I was right, William" mimicked Sloan in the thickest Dutch accent he could manage. "How could I not be? I'm Derek Rayne." 

The younger man grinned. "I do have to admit that the gray matter has been slipping a bit of late... lack of intellectual discourse from the company I keep." 

"Gray matter?" Sloan teased. "Come on, Derek. I tutored you. I know what's in your head... pure methane." 

Derek looked down at the padded floor to probe a small hole with his finger. Thoughtfully, he pulled a long thread from the canvas. "You know, William," he said quietly, "I've always considered Patricia to be one of the brightest women I've ever met." Looking up through his hair, he gave a furtive half-smile. "You must certainly be good in bed, because all she'd have to do is call the information operator for a more stimulating conversation." 

"I'm sure that's what the 'Hotel de Rayne' is for... stimulating conversation?" the older man quipped as he leaned his head back against the padding. 

"Practice makes perfect," Derek taunted. "On second thought... maybe poor Patty had to do a lot of remedial education in that department." 

"Excuse you?" said Sloan, raising his head to look straight into his friend's hazel eyes, which had again begun to twinkle at the game. 

"No wonder... married two years... and no kids yet? Shooting blanks, are we?" 

"And how many have you sired?... No... I shudder at the thought. The world can't handle any little Derek Raynes running around." 

Derek gave an impish chuckle. "It'll probably be another decade before you get the technique sorted out." 

"And I'm sure you get rave reviews?" Sloan badgered. 

"Precisely... haven't had any complaints," the younger man boasted. "Lots of repeat performances." 

"I'd rather have the same person attending for the rest of my life," William said quietly. 

"I seem to recall a bit of a revolving door at Balliol," Derek laughed. "Not many came back for a second helping, did they? I guess Patricia's either a masochist or a natural born teacher." 

"I'd ask you how you know, but with your history...." 

"Guess who they came to for the second helping?... Even that brunette with the birthmark... what was her name... Lady Ashley Cecil?" 

That dart had hit a little close to the mark. Slightly annoyed, Sloan asked in a caustic tone, "Did you take her under your blankie?" 

"My blankie?" questioned Derek in confusion. 

"The one from Nanny Ross?" William prompted. He eagerly watched his protégée's angular face for a break in the enigmatic facade. That'll teach him to make fun of my "abilities". 

"My quilt?" the younger man asked in shock. "How did you know about that? Did Mother tell you? She did tell you. I can't believe she told you about Nanny Ross' quilt!" 

The precept smiled... he had turned the tables. "Why wouldn't she? She trusts me.... We're friends," he stated proudly. "I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you." 

"But to tell you about my quilt... how could she?" Derek murmured in a rather hurt tone. "The night we left San Francisco, Nanny Ross put that quilt around me," he quietly explained. "It was from her own bed... she made it... it smelled of her. I never saw her again," he sadly concluded. Remembering his beloved Nanny Ross, Derek paused a moment. Then an image flitted through his mind. 

"While we're at it," he said as his eyebrow rose and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "what about that dog you kept in the suitcase at the top of the closet? Fuzzy little guy... embroidered mouth... button eyes... wind up the tail and it played _Zip-a-dee-do-dah_... the great hit of 1947." 

"When did you see that?" demanded William, pushing himself to his feet as though preparing for a confrontation. 

"Let's just say I had a vision," Derek chuckled. 

Fair's fair, thought the precept. "What about your little Indians?" he asked. 

"What little Indians?" 

"The little plastic ones that went with the cowboys," Sloan responded. Now I've got him! 

"You son-of-a-bitch," the younger man whispered. "You searched my dresser. You found my cigar box with Roy Rogers and Trigger." 

William laughed. "...with the cute little feather tail?" 

"His tail broke off," Derek admitted with almost childlike simplicity. "Trigger had to have a tail. It was all I could think of." 

"And I thought you were supposed to be bright... the Legacy's child prodigy," the precept needled. "Too bad you didn't get it in the right place... a little higher would have been good" 

"That was bright," his friend countered. "It was very creative for a four-year-old." 

"I suppose so," Sloan conceded. But, unwilling to yield, he continued, "Did you show all your girlfriends your toys?" 

"Certainly," replied Derek. "Just like you cranked up the dog's tail to play _Zip-a-dee-doo-dah_ for inspiration. Tell me," he asked pointedly, "did it help your performance? Should we market Fido as an aphrodisiac?" 

Keys rattled in the lock. Both turned abruptly as the bolt was slammed back and Hans swung the door wide. Derek's heart sank at the sight of Barbara Rayne, cool and aristocratic in a Chanel suit, in deep discussion with the towering Mother Superior. 

"Gentlemen," she said in a tone that made both men feel like truant schoolboys. 

"Mother!" said Derek, wide-eyed in complete shock. "What are you doing here?" 

With the genteel disdain that only mothers can display, Barbara turned her back to continue her conversation with the hospital's administrator. 

"Madam Rayne," said Sister Ursula as she patted Barbara's hand, "my deepest sympathies.... I certainly hope that they are not both yours. Is there, perhaps, some genetic problem in zie family?" 

"Only one is mine," replied Barbara. "Thank the Lord." 

"I shall remember you in my prayers," the good sister assured the smaller woman. 

"Thank you, Reverend Mother... they are most needed and quite welcome," Barbara responded in her formal manner. 

Finally, drawing her small frame up into her most regal posture, Derek's mother took a deep breath and turned back to step into the cell. "Derek Emrys Rayne," she said cooly as she looked up to fix her son with an icy stare. "I am here because you have created an international incident. 

"Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall," she quoted from _Proverbs_. Her aloof expression displayed her reproach as she allowed her eyes to slowly survey the two bedraggled men standing before her in their rumpled, sweat stained hospital gowns. "How the mighty are brought low," she commented with phonetic precision. "Brought down to the level of the common unwashed, unclothed masses." For added emphasis, she pulled a dainty, scented handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her nose for a moment... to conceal her smile. 

Both men suddenly found their toes to be of immense interest. 

"I shall leave you with these two 'children'," said the nun. "Hans vill be just outside should they become violent." 

"It is I who would become violent, sister," Barbara corrected. 

"I shall have a priest standing by to give you absolution," responded the Mother Superior. As she turned, a quick smile skimmed across her lips. 

"_Danke sehr_, Reverend Mother," Mrs. Rayne replied with a nod of her dark blond head. 

"Mother," Derek began. 

"Silence." 

"Barbara... thank goodness," said William. "Get me out of here... your son is driving me insane. You should sign the papers on him this instant." 

"I should leave you both here until hell freezes over," said Barbara in a tone that had the sharpness of a well stropped razor. "Mr. Ombasso is furious. He's a personal friend of the Vice-president and he's demanding that the Ruling Council convene a board of inquiry." 

"He started it," Sloan interrupted as he nodded his head toward Derek. "Got his damned wires crossed... not that they've ever been very straight." 

Turning her steely gaze toward the older of the pair, Barbara held up her hand. "William, I am astounded. You had no business stepping into another precept's territory without informing him," she stated bluntly. "The Council has decided that you will remain here until you both write a formal apology, which will be posted to each Legacy House." Opening her purse, she pulled out two school composition books and several pencils. As she handed one to each man, she continued, "Then you will each issue a public apology to the Nairobi House, to its precept, Mr. Ombasso, and to the entire Legacy over closed-circuit television. Is that clear?" 

"Mother... the man I met at the reception in San Francisco was a doppelganger. I will not apologize for being right," said Derek harshly as turned to slam the booklet against the wall. 

"Excuse me, son," Barbara said calmly. "You had a charming little fanny at fifteen months, but somehow, at twenty-five, it isn't quite the same." 

Derek grabbed for the back of his hospital gown and spun about to face his mother. 

A laugh threatened to crack her voice at the sight of the blush that swept across her son's usually inscrutable face. "It obviously was not a doppelganger whom you hit with the holy water, was it?" she continued. "You, Master Rayne, will issue a formal, written apology to the Luna Foundation... it's board, staff, and volunteers, _verstaat U?_ I shall return for the letters... sometime," Barbara added as she turned to exit. The door slammed shut behind her and the bolt rammed home. 

"Dammit!" Derek shouted. "She's going to leave us to stew.... God knows when she'll be back." 

"Serves you right," said Sloan. 

"Yeah?" the younger man retorted. "Look who's got the other 'theme' book?" 

"I can't believe this!" the precept croaked as he slumped to the padded floor. 

"How the hell do we apologize without apologizing?" asked Derek, sliding down the wall to sit beside his friend. 

"I don't know," William admitted. "We'll think of something. I've got the feeling that we'll have plenty of time." 

The End


End file.
